


modest in temper, bold in deed

by pathofcomets



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Companions, Developing Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Dynamics, Heroes & Heroines, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Pansexual Character, Porn With Plot, Present Tense, Relationship Study, Relationship(s), Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 10:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20274679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathofcomets/pseuds/pathofcomets
Summary: The world always came back to the same two old things: what can you gain, and what do you have to sacrifice for it?The world ends like this: a flame being ignited, but her vision turning to dark. The end of the world, and it was only the beginning of Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor. Only the first list of what she had to give up: her world, her life, a sibling, her hand.





	modest in temper, bold in deed

**Author's Note:**

> Some things are slightly altered from the actual canon, or added because I love living my best spicy drama life.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an old, rich noble house is constantly in need of strengthening its political ties. Some do it through anarchy, some through religion. Most do it through marriage and tradition. It’s hard to break at what the world feels like it has known since forever.

She was not supposed to be anyone important. The youngest in a noble house, with no hopes other than becoming a Chantry cleric or being married off for any current political interest of her family. Her parents have been patient enough: she was the only daughter after four boys, coming in their later age – and they had time to boast the achievements of her brothers before her turn came. Her siblings scattered off: getting married and building families, forgetting about their snotty little sister, or registering for the Templar Order. It’s how life was supposed to go, and despite all her careful education, she had no one tell her that she can hope at a world different than what she was led to believe.

She read the tales, she saw the cities and the courts going on: sometimes without the plotting and backstabbing, sometimes free, but she never imagined her own life could be different. She was a lady and she had a duty. She knew how to wield her daggers, because not to would have been entirely foolish. She knew how to sew and how to play an instrument, though she was bad at lip-service, and as such usually ushered to a corner during more important meetings. She was rather dull and quiet (better to bite your tongue, than let out something that you might later regret, like _why on earth people even believe these things? what in Andraste’s name am I even doing, at all?_) – plain looking on top of that, too. It was easy for others to forget about her, and so it became easy for her to forget about herself.

Her mother has tried match-making ever since her first bleeding, but despite their status and their name, she was but the youngest, she was still young, and she was still of no interest to those her family wanted. So they waited: she sang the Chant some more alongside the sisters, went on various pilgrimages (more political than religious) with her mother, ushered off her brothers as they left to fulfil their purposes, as she waited (as she should, as she damn should). If any of her yearning for the outside world showed, when she looked out carriage windows for too long or when the dawn found her still awake, listening to the busy humming of an always awake city, nobody tried to bring it up. Young girls are difficult, but they’re supposed to get better, be prim, _bite their fucking tongues._

The resentment grew, and because she didn’t have a name for what she was feeling, she refused to feel it at all. She was loved – as loved as someone can be in a strict family, and she had people care for her. She could never reproach the people around her that. But she learnt to be even quieter, she learnt to be smart and resourceful. She lied.

The proper gatherings of nobles tend to be so boring, after all. The corset is too tight, and her boob sweat is uncomfortable after too many hours. She feels weird with her mother’s rouge on her cheeks, too much with her skin tone, though she likes the hair let down over the shoulders, or the painted lips. But it’s always the same old gossip, the aunts and uncles gathered in a semi-circle around the youngsters, commenting – _and darling, your daughter put a bit of weight on, right? she looks a bit stupid on those heels. _And darling, she wanted to punch them.

Men approached them – the name doesn’t go unnoticed after all. Some act all proper, but they’re speaking of things she is not allowed to know inside her family, intrigues and interests she has read only hurriedly in old books under her blankets at night. She knows they like her all the more for that brief second when they can read her panic and stupidity on her face. Others are obvious in their flirting, during dances she is not allowed to refuse (her mother’s eyes burning on her back) – and they fumble over their lame pick-up line when she remains stone-faces, unimpressed. And well, some prefer to corner her on her way from the bathroom, in dark sides of poorly lit hallways, where no one can notice their faces, where no one can hear her protests. She burns with anger and fear and shame at their touch, is quick to act in shoving them away – but her heart cannot stop painfully thumping in her chest for the remaining of the night.

It’s these encounters in particular that make her realize how ill equipped she is for the real world, even the domestic one. People are so free in doing things simply because they can. So she starts testing her own limits and abilities, and where she finds herself lacking, she works harder.

She grows. She answers back more often now, a smile at the corner of her mouth when she knows she has the upper hand, but she’s always pleasant with those who need it, with those that give her no reason not to be. Plain, she remains for the most part. She likes it. It buys her time.

It was her mother that was supposed to be present at the Conclave, but she’s been old, and at the prospect of the long travels, and the cold on top of that, she quickly passed on the duty on her daughter. Her unfitting daughter, but there simply was no one left to properly represent the interest of their House – and if it is her rightful duty, she won’t shirk from it. Divine Justinia welcomed every single person personally, a presence like the sun itself. She met her brother there, and she felt happy, even when his armour bumped awkwardly against her when she tried to hug him.

But the Conclave was not that different from what she was used to, so she stayed silent and looked around, at all the political screams around her, all the upset dignitaries and skilful negotiators. The world always came back to the same two old things: what can you gain, and what do you have to sacrifice for it?

The world ends like this: a flame being ignited, but her vision turning to dark. The end of the world, and it was only the beginning of Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick, Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor. Only the first list of what she had to give up: her world, her life, a sibling, her hand.

* * *

In truth, the reason why she remained silent in front of Cassandra Penthaghast when she first her met was simple knee-jerk reaction. If someone is mad at you, screaming at you – you shut the fuck up, don’t make it worse. If she were to be honest, it was probably fear, just pure fear that made her adjust so quickly. She was scared of this new found power inside her, petrified at the implications of it (_Andraste, the Maker – these are tale names, they should never have anything to do with mere humans)_. If not for Cassandra’s sturdy hand around her elbow, she would have crumpled to the ground upon the sight of those ruins, in the midst of which a breach was eating away at the sky, spouting out demons.

City ladies aren’t supposed to be fighting ghouls. She, in particular, participant at the Conclave too, is not supposed to be alive, but she is – and she wants to throw up at the surge of relief that she feels with each beating of her heart. She feels light-headed, like she betrayed some part of her humanity – and she wishes her own memories would come to her as easy as they seem to be stuck in the veil of magic. Another thing that she is not supposed to be familiar with: this kind of antique, powerful magic (_it was supposed to be just in the stories, just another thing I couldn’t reac-)_.

And then she passes out.

* * *

The poor servant girl found her on the floor, forehead against the cold edge of the table, while she was trying to calm down a painful headache, calm her thoughts so her breath won’t start heaving. There’s too much happening at once – the lack of chains around her wrists must be a good sign, though. She is not a believer, but the adoration behind the nickname, the gleam in some people’s eyes – it is too much too bear, too much attention suddenly shoved her way. But she cannot run away, she has nowhere to go now that she lived through the impossible, now that she bears a mark. There’s no one else to do it but her. What a frighteningly simple thought: that no matter how unfitting she will prove to be, she’s all they have. A sword does not ask to be forged. She did not ask to be made into this pseudo-religious symbol.

But her hand is glowing green, and the sky is opening above her head, and she really wants to go and die right now, but there are people around her, braver and kinder than she ever hoped to be, and they’re relying on her. She wants to believe, in the end, that it is them that should give her a fitting purpose, away from what she’s known until now. She cannot bear to look at herself, she cannot bear to trust herself, so for the time being, she trusts their desperation, their need, their orders, their pleas.

So, she tries again. She smiles the next time when she goes and visits Cassandra, because after all they are both noble ladies who just wanted to follow their family’s path only to find it’s a dead-end. The comfort sits in what remains unspoken between them, in the way they wear their shoulders, in the way their voices soften just upon certain words. She leaves beaming, hopeful, at least more at peace. It’s just the same with Josephine, who is sweet like honey, caring and understanding, but just to hide the bittersweet, old familial resentment. Hell, if she doesn’t know what constantly having marriage shoved down your throat is like.

She must admit, she’s been…. upset at first. No one really wants to be a hero, or a leader. But she believes (she has to believe) that the fact that she can and want to help is enough. She doesn’t have much to offer, she’s lacking in combat experience, and she’s been snappier than usual, not much of a diplomat. She goes around the camp, asks for what she can do, but it’s all mechanic, her mind far-away, stuck on what she has lost.

She spends too much time harvesting plants in the beginning, foraging for ingredients and materials for the camp. She needs to make herself useful, while allowing herself some time to think this through – and it helps, in a way. No one gave her any time to mourn, unlike all the people she’s meeting who are grieving and forgiven in their actions because of it. She thinks of her brother, his ashes mixed with that of tens of others. She thinks of all these political links that she must navigate, that she thought far from her reach before. She thinks of her family, that she doubts she’ll get to see again – not in the same way, anyway. She spends nights wide awake, tears falling on the side of her face into the pillow, crying over the past that she left behind. It wasn’t even precious, it wasn’t even hers, but she’s so petrified in the face of all the unknown that awaits her once the sun rises again, that she can’t make herself sleep. She’s scared of all the power that’s been shoved onto her.

If she makes one detrimental decision, it could end fatal for the entire Thedas. So she sighs, picks another elfroot, greets another peasant – and counts her blessings, starting with each breath she’s taking.

Varric has these stories he likes to say of the Champion of Kirkwall, and she loves them dearly. She’s not much younger than that hero, but the tales reached her ears at first when she was a teenager, and she remembers the copies of romance books, all read several times through, how much they used to touch her then. Hawke was only a human girl in the beginning too. She asked him once, after too much to drink, in those early days: what am I supposed to do? How can I possibly act like their chosen one, when I know myself the most?

But a leader is simply someone who sees something wrong and goes in to make it better. If she hasn’t yet run away, she can do that, one task at a time. It’s a resilience typical to them human girls, Varric would guess, but this Herald of Andraste is asleep before she gets the answers that she wants, and he laughs in his ale, storing another story for another time.

Mother Giselle is comforting, kind. But even this person warns her, that she should not bear the weight of it all alone. But all around her she has seen only frail, heavy shoulders. Busy heads, dark under circles, people with more responsibility and more work than her. She doesn’t know who to turn to, despite any kind of understanding that might start flourishing between them. She’s not their friend, she’s their ally, and she must not bend, must not crack, must not burden them further.

* * *

When Sera calls her plain, just a human, she wants to cry with relief. She knows it’s in jest, but the comfort is almost unmatched – to know that there’s still a part of her that remains like before. Whatever mystery the world is trying to shroud her in, at the end of the day, when people meet her, she is still that plain woman, nothing much.

She accepts all help gratefully. If it was a mistake trusting, then she’ll deal with it when the consequences come biting her in the ass, but until then she must believe that the people who say they care about the _big hole in the sky_ actually do. She tried doubting, thinking things over, but it was tiring and painful, dissecting everyone’s intentions like that.

It feels a bit unfair that in the middle of it all, she learns to find who she is, she finds a voice. Rather, she can’t ignore it. Cullen looks her straight in the eye when he asks a question, Josephine asks for her advice each time she finds a spare moment, and in the midst of the battle, her back reaches Cassandra’s. She feels selfish, relishing in these instances when she is acknowledged so fully, beyond any differences. She can accept or deny requests as she deems fit, and she ends up trying to fulfil most of them, the desperation in these people’s voices too much to tell them no. There’s nothing like their tired smiles afterwards, like the overflowing gratitude.

She did something. She made that something. Each action has a consequence, and this idea is so powerful that it is enough to get her drunk, to steel her determination, to make her accept this place more easily. So when Josephine asks, she doesn’t complain about the living conditions. When Cassandra trains, she joins her. When Leliana loses herself in her past, she lets her.

When allies pour in, one by one – she welcomes them. A long-forgotten relative in Dorian Pavus. A secret Warden, powerful mages…

* * *

And the Iron Bull. She hasn’t seen the sea as angry in a long time, and she supposes it matches with the fighting that breaks, with the swift moves of that massive warrior, with the precision and power of his group. Her own party has almost nothing to do as they arrive, and as the weapons are thrown aside, her heart is thrumming in her ears, because these are the exact kind of people that she’d like by their side as they fight against demons, assassins and whatever threats Andraste may throw in their way too.

“The Chargers seem like an excellent company,” she says, mind already made that she’s to buy their first round of drinks, once they’re all set up at the Inquisition’s headquarters.

Standing, the Iron Bull is almost twice her size. There’s a shiver going down her spine as she is forced to look up at him, hurry to keep up with his paces. She’s never seen someone as intimidatingly _huge_ as him, and she’s absolutely enthralled. He’s good – and good is not a good enough word, but he’s also honest about his connections, all cards laid in front of her, charmingly so. It’s the easiest ‘yes’ she has said in a while.

But the beginnings are always the hardest. Everyone’s new, no one fully trusts each other, everyone’s questioning or doubting, there’s so much work to be done, issues upon issues.

“So whatever I am, I’m on your side.”

What a relief, she thinks, looking at this larger than life man smirking down at her. She can’t help asking questions, prodding at him – she’s fascinated by him and what he can do. The first battle they fought by each other’s side, she wanted to kiss that weapon of his, kiss in his battle cry – because suddenly everything became so much easier. He loves fighting in a way that is not at all relatable to her, and for the first time since she started the whole closing-of-breaches thing, she didn’t have to bite back tears as a mage healed her palm blisters, because for the first time, she didn’t have any.

So, she is glad for his presence. Even if it comes with exchange of information and secrets, even if it is paid. She feels a bit lighter around him, a part of whatever it is that’s weighing her down passed onto him, easier to bear. What an incredible revelation that is to her, that she doesn’t have to doubt his place, at least for now.

She doubts enough as it is: her own family’s help, their spare resources, the abilities of the young men they just recruited. Her ability to actually stop this force tearing apart the world. So to stop thinking about it, she lets her mouth run off, asking questions that no lady should have, hearing of things that she would have been protected from, in her past life. It’s refreshing and empowering, to get to experience it all, like this, with a slight smile passed between the two of them, the hint of something not yet entirely bloomed.

* * *

The future is cold and red and it doesn’t exist for her. It’s both a chilling and peaceful thought at the same time. Per others’ words, she should consider herself lucky, no army of demons to be faced, but time and space are tricky here, and she breathes anyway, both her of her own moments, and the one stuck in the future, but with no memories to prove it.

She dislikes magic. The way it can change so many things, so easily. It’s terrifying and unnatural. Dorian’s mouth running off, trying to explain things makes it just a tiny bit better. It’s reassuring to know that at least someone here knows what’s going on, can counter the weaving of reality’s fabric. Stuck like this, she can’t believe she can feel guilty for things she didn’t do, couldn’t do because she was _dead_. The red lyrium burns at her eyes and conscience, but she feels better with old allies at her side, with how surprisingly optimistic they all are. From where she stands, the future is just… bleak. It doesn’t stop her from fighting, from trying to undone it. In the midst of the battle what she thinks doesn’t matter; she just has to follow those that know better, just wield her weapons. She’s grateful to Leliana, that she also doesn’t want to know the truths of a what-if. Ignorance is bliss after all.

Between the local fighting, the dragons, the helping, the political treaties, the plant gathering… she closes the breach. Barely. They don’t even have the time to celebrate it before an attack is upon them, all that they’ve achieved gone in the blink of an eye. One second she’s surrounded by her people, the other by flames and rubble. So hopeless, so soon. She bites her anger this time, asks for suggestions instead, asks for help – desperate to change something, to not allow this to end.

At least, by now, she’s gotten used to Cullen’s orders, to Cassandra’s alertness. It’s easier to move, knowing them, knowing they have one common end goal, knowing that they’re on the same side. This time, when she has to put her life on the line, she doesn’t hesitate. It hasn’t been long, but this place, with the people in it, became something precious to her. If she’s to give it something back, wouldn’t be this new life awakened inside her the proper price? It’d be a lie to say she is not scared – she is terrified. The kind of power that a dragon, that Corypheus holds is not something that you can understand without seeing first-hand, and no matter how many times she might encounter it, it feels new and overbearing each and every time.

When she falls, she half wishes she’d actually die. Sacrifice done, struggles ended. Instead, she coughs out the dust from her lungs, presses against her frost-bitten toes, moans in pain at her bruised ribs, and after one sharp intake of breath, she starts moving again. Path found, made when not. It’s always a good sign when you encounter enemies, you know there’s something of value to be found at the end.

Her precious advisors have been fighting for the long hours that she spent resting, healing. She’d kill for a drink, but none of them are in a position where they can allow her this. Her only peace is Mother Giselle, kind once again, with faith so hot she feels she might burn against it. She doesn’t believe in her own power, she knows better than anyone her own fear and despair that made everything happen. The immense luck. The explanations that no one can understand or give her. It’s all so complicated, too complicated.

What she learns that night, in the heart of the mountains, is that she doesn’t have to believe, as long as others do. And despite the darkness of the night, a new dawn will always come. Theirs find them on their way to Skyhold, a new place that they can call home. She has Solas to thank for this. Her heart expands in her chest, humbled at all these people that are willing to come together under one common goal. It’s humanity at its most desperate, and at its best as well.

* * *

Cole helped them. Lately, she’s been thinking that’s a good enough sign of ally ship. To her, it doesn’t matter much that no one can explain what he is. It’s not like anyone knows how to explain her that much either. It’s a strange solace that she finds at the side of this spirit, that speaks in people’s last thoughts, a voice barely above a whisper. There’s no lies upon a dying man’s lips, so Cole speaks the truth at its barest.

“I used to think I was ghost. Then… I learned to be more like I am. It made me different, but stronger.”

She smiles despite herself. What a relatable description. Her hands start trembling a bit, listening to him. Her past life seems so distant now, buried under all the new scars on her body, under all the letters for the Inquisition, under all the spies and rumours. She can recall it, though: the days passing her by with nothing worth remembering or doing, her family passing by her without a nod of acknowledgement; a ghost. It is the Inquisition that made her into who she is today: a tiny bit braver, a tiny bit stronger, a tiny bit smarter, a tiny bit kinder. A tiny bit more like herself.

Here is the only place where she can belong now. And once, she’s been told that wanting to help is enough. So Cole stays.

* * *

Inquisitor. A new title. More to burden her down. Will it ever stop? 

* * *

She wants to laugh in her guard costume, with Bull hovering above her, fixing the scarf around her neck, the night cold making home in her bones. She wonders sometimes, if he’s even bothered by the weather, and it’s another childish thought. With him, she finds that she is more comfortable than usual. She is still his _boss_, the Inquisitor, but she’s also something beyond that. She knows he is a spy, and yet she doesn’t fear for her life for even one second as they make their way in the courtyard, destination unknown to her.

They sit around a fire, her acting barely worth the name, hearing the stories of those joining her army. These are her fighters, the people under her – and it is humbling to know more beyond the eyes under a helmet. It’s a new perspective: the fears, the needs and the motivations of others.

She’s been thrown into all of this, place sculpted for her because there was no one else. But here, around this campfire, are people who willingly put themselves out there, who wanted to do something about life happening to them. She wonders if she would have had the courage, back in the luxury of nobility, to pick up her daggers and do the right thing.

She doesn’t want an answer to this, ashamed it might not be the one she wants.

But it speaks of the Iron Bull’s good leadership skills, that he went out of his way to show her this. To remind her that each and every one of the men under her are just as alive, just as much of a protagonist in their own lives as them. His care is touching. No one tried guiding her so close to the heart of the Inquisition’s ranks, to let her know that her influence matters in more than table war decisions and high court skirmishes. It’s with these people that she fights the hardest battles.

She is grateful.

* * *

Hawke is the stuff of stories and legends, and above all, she is alive and well right in front of her. She doesn’t think she can stop her admiring grin from spreading, or the grateful looks thrown at Varric. Once a hero, always a hero she supposes – and in the lines of Hawke’s shoulders, she can read the same guilt and responsibility that are oh so familiar to her. She’d like for them to talk more about something else than the threats they have to face, and the corruption in the ranks of organizations they’re not even part of. It’s frustrating sometimes, that they have to care about so many things at the same time.

And gods, she hates the Fade. It’s the start of everything, the end of everything. A place with no real rules, knowing more than their own hearts. It’s tricky, true to the worst of them. Everything is upside down, and her head hurts, trying to piece together what she is seeing with the laws of the natural world. She can feel herself freak out, and some of her companions are not much better. She feels bad for having dragged them into this mess, but whereas Hawke and the Warden are at least used to the basics of it, it’s the first time she sees the Iron Bull less than confident. It makes her fight harder, to get to the end of it faster.

Her memories are only telling her what she already knew: that only luck brought her to where she is today, a bad (good?) timing on her part, and magic beyond her understanding. But at least she can feel whole again, she can shake off the doubts, for she knows the truth now.

When the Nightmare appears, it’s not that scary. When it’s companion spiders do, though, the Inquisitor screams, limbs frozen in fear. She is scared of many things, and above all of them, spiders. For Maker’s sake, she screamed her first night in Haven too, upon discovering a spider in her bed, but these are one hundred times bigger than the usual, and she cannot move. That is, until Bull is charging at them, and the sight snaps her out of it, brings her back to herself and the task.

But it’s not easy, fighting your worst fears, knowing the kind of power that they have over you. She wants to scream, bang at the graves, scratch at the reasons engraved into the stone – but she doesn’t have the time, she never does –

Stroud remains in the Fade. Dies there, as a hero, like the dead can get any satisfaction out of how they’ll be remembered. Hawke leaves almost immediately, the world a bomb ready to blow them all to bits, all the time. The Inquisitor is slow in her return, spider guts still glued to her hair and armour, unshed tears making her face puffy and red. When she talks to others though, her back is still straight, and the Iron Bull notices the changes in her expression, the body language, and tries not to be too angry that he’s gotten dragged into all of this, when it’s so obvious that she’s just as tired of it.

Back at Skyhold, she draws herself a warm bath, postpones any reports, sits in the water, gaze vacant, face stricken with tears. It never gets easier, and she doesn’t know what to do. She feels exhausted deep in her bones, and no matter how many times she scrubs at her skin, she can’t shake off the horror. So she gets dressed, ready for a walk.

Her feet carry her to the courtyard first, where Cassandra… is kicking Bull’s ass. She’d have laughed, if they didn’t look that serious. She’s passed on the task, and she sits there unsure, the stick in her hands, eyes unable to meet his. When she asks for explanations, there’s none actually given to her, so she steels herself, balances herself on her feet, and _hits. _She’d like to talk instead, but she doesn’t trust her voice, and if this is what he needs, then who is she to deny him?

“Didn’t know you like it that rough,” she jokes, a smile finally on her face.

The Iron Bull stops, returning the gesture before replying, making up his mind that maybe it’s time to let this human meet his favourite group. With alcohol and some jokes, he’s sure it’ll be fun. And just maybe, she’ll stop frowning a bit, the lost look on her face gone for a while. She agrees to meet them that night, and he talks about each of his men in the Chargers with so much pride, so much warmth that she can’t help but feel welcomed and happy. She knows it’s an honour to be here, between this knot-tight group. She knows that no matter if she’s their boss or not, he wouldn’t have let her in if he didn’t deem her worthy. So she accepts another drink, asks for another story, makes herself more comfortable on the chair.

By the end of the night, they’re singing tales of their achievements, and she can’t help following their tune, humming under her breath. Then, it becomes a more common occurrence, finding Bull in the tavern, stopping him for a drink or a short chat, finding more and more about him.

"My people don't pick leaders from the strongest, or the smartest, or even the most talented. We pick the ones willing to make the hard decisions... and live with the consequences," he tells her once, when she stumbles in the tavern after a tiresome war council, after finding out the dead of several hundreds, under the Inquisitor’s symbol. She’s not sure if it’s supposed to make her feel better, that she’s getting immune to making life-altering choices from morning to night. But his voice is laced with something… something maybe like admiration, or at least respect. It makes her feel like she’s less of a mistake.

He’s a man of power and a man of honour, just as she first thought him to be. But he’s also kind, attentive, and so subtle. He is not looking for acknowledgement in any other skill than fighting, and this makes him all the more fascinating to her. That she could start praising him and not stop for the next thirty minutes, and yet here he is, acting like he is not doing much.

Still, she’s thankful for him. She isn’t sure if it’s his Ben-Hassrath training, but he always seems to read her mind, ease her mind when she’s tensioned. It’s not something that she would have expected from the most intimidating of her allies, but she is not complaining. It’s moments like these that make her slip out flirty words without realizing. It’s the sight of him, suddenly, at the edge of her vision, that makes her yearn to stop any important discussion, to go and get him instead.

This time, it’s actually important business with him, his people. Krem and his chief are fighting, getting her through a possible alliance with the qunari. She’s gotten used to this too: making out his words between ragged breathes and swords scratching. She wouldn’t even dream of denying him, not after he worked so hard, on both his sides, to make this work.

The mission reminds her of the first time she met the Chargers. The same stormy sea, the gloomy rain. She can feel her clothes sticking to her skin, her hair heavy on her back, but she’s gotten used to ignoring what she doesn’t like about her life. She focuses on Bull’s old acquaintance instead, curious at the memories knotting them together.

Both her and Gatt noticed that the easier tasks went to the Chargers, but whereas he seems mad, incriminating… the Inquisitor just thinks it natural of him. He cares about them enough not to make them fight mindlessly. But in the face of an ambush, does he care about them more than he cares about his people?

Even she can’t guess his answer: The Inquisition or the qunari? Whatever choice, he’ll have to live with it for the rest of his life. If he picks his men, he’ll become what he’s hated most, what he has hunted once, as an agent of the Ben-Hassrath. If he chooses to follow the Qun, the men he has spent the last years with are all dead.

She sits to the side, silent as they argue, her heart aching for him. But then Bull turns towards her, eyes questioning and hurt. She doesn’t know if she wants to hate him or love him for seeking out her say in it. She’s only heard of his life in the Ben-Hassrath, tales that are far away, both in time and space. But she has seen the way he cares about the Chargers, she has seen them in action so many times before, and she can’t imagine there being a day when they won’t fight together, as one, celebrating a win at the end of the day.

“Call the retreat,” she says, stunned that her voice didn’t fail her.

Gatt’s words slap at her, shame her, _anger_ her. She knows that people die either way in this exchange of theirs, and fates are changed, but she can’t help the rage taking over her at his own. It’s not fair, the choice is made, no matter what else is said now… it has been done. She has never heard the Iron Bull sound quite as pained as in those moment following the boat going up in flames, parts of his people dead.

There’s only one place where he can return now. To them. She wonders if this choice is also binding him to the Inquisition in a way, for now. There’s no alliance between their organization and the qunari, after all. Bull becomes Tal-Vashoth.

They send assassins in the end, though he deals with them on his own. She wants to slap that disappointed smile off his face, or the knowing words out of him. She’s angry because she’s worried, and his chiding is well-deserved, so she takes it all mutely, eyes scanning his body for wounds instead, heart sinking in the pit of her stomach at the misunderstanding.

He knows way more than her. She doesn’t have the training necessary to help him, yet he chose her as possible help in this assassination attempt. She stops him with a sigh.

“How’s the wound?”

He shrugs it off, but she’s still slowly reaching for his arm. He doesn’t move away, so she grabs him, makes him follow her to her chamber, where she’s at least busying herself to cleaning his wounds.

“Tal-Va-Fucking-Shoth.” The bitterness behind it stings. She sees a man no different than the one she has met before, just more… burdened. She tries telling him as much, but he’s stubborn, lost. It makes her want to shake some sense into him.

“Hey!” Her voice is strong; her gaze is firm. “You’re a good man.”

There’s a pause, their eyes meeting, his stubbornness breaking, her words settling in.

“Boss… Whatever I miss, whatever I regret… this is where I want to be.”

She smiles, letting him go. He has to report the two dead assassins, after all, and she has an evening meeting that she needs to get going for. But she decides to remember his words, keep them locked in a dear part of her heart, return to them whenever she doubts herself next, hoard his reassurance like something precious and important, to rely on.

* * *

She swears she’ll get an eternal headache from all the arguing between her advisors, the numbers that she has to check, the judgement that she has to bestow. She walks around like a blind man, stumbling over stairs, hoping the other person gets out of her way before they knock against each other, her nose stuck in record books or letters for aid. This is exactly why she doesn’t notice Bull in her room, on her bed, until he speaks; why she shivers upon hearing his voice, dropping the papers all over the floor.

She’s blushing before he’s even done with his sentences; what a crass way of phrasing it, after all (though now her mind is running off, imagining exactly how tantalizingly satisfying riding him would actually be). He cares though, enough to ask her if she is sure, several times. By the time he walks across the room to reach her, her heart is beating in her throat, heat setting aflame her entire body.

She gasps when he touches her, his palm warm at the small of her waist, the other hand pining her arms to the wall behind her. She can feel his thumb pressing patterns into her skin, where her shirt has ridden up. At this point, she’s already so needy that she begs him to stay. Despite his words, the first kiss is soft and slow, testing exactly how they match, how they taste. With each second, Bull grows needier, pressing hungrily against her lips, his tongue finding hers.

She’s light as a feather in his arms, as he carries her towards the bed. He’s read her too many times, he knows her too well now – and beyond the lustful gaze, she’s a human noble from a heavily religious family, and her experience ends with several make out sessions, heavy petting and the occasional steamy novels. It excites him more than he thought, knowing that this sheltered, shy daughter is burning at the image of having him, is blushing at his words and at his touches.

She needs this, needs it more than she needs the extra hours of sleep or a good feast. Her body is all tense under him, outside demeanour brought into bed with him, and Bull hates it. He determines to coax her out of her role, to have her without an armour, without a title. It’s so thrilling he can barely keep in a groan.

“Legs open,” he demands, tapping at her knee once, looking her down, waiting.

She hurries to listen, hypnotized by the commanding tone in his voice. Her eyes are sparkling with curiosity, and his fingers are slow and kind as they find the waist of her pants, slowly dragging them down, off her. Her smalls are wet already, and she’s smelling so prettily already, all for him. But Bull is patient, and with parts of her clothes thrown on the floor, he focuses on the naked skin left for his exploration. He takes hold of one of her heels, starts slowly kissing his way up on her leg.

She squirms under him, and his eyes cut as they finds hers. “Don’t. Move.”

He punctuates his remark with a bite against her inner thigh, and she gasps his name. He works slowly, licking and biting, teasing the areas that get a reaction out of her.

“Please,” she begs, and Bull chuckles against her covered heat, making her shiver.

“Please what?” He teases, looking up at her: the inner thigh covered in love bites, the red cheeks, the hands knotted in her sheets.

“Touch me,” she breathes, sounding like a whiny brat. His hands roam over her body again, moving higher, helping her out of her shirt, freeing her chest. His mouth hungrily follows, lips around one of her nipples, a hand around the other. She’s more vocal now, low moans and sharp gasps, body reacting to his actions, and he smiles, biting lightly against her skin before switching his focus once again.

He trails kisses down between her legs again, and with a sharp move, she’s left naked before him. She’d feel more embarrassed if not so desperately needy, over the fact that he’s still fully dressed in front of her.

He starts slow, at first. A kiss so light against her cunt, that she would have barely felt it if not accompanied by his breathing. One lick, deliciously slow, along her folds, and she’s left gasping for air. Fingers kneading at her thighs, pressing so hard that she’ll bruise, as his tongue darts forward, entering her.

“O_h_-” Her voice is soft, barely there, eyes shut tight as a ripple of pleasure goes through her body. She’s so receptive that she thinks she’ll die right here and then, legs wide around Bull’s head (and what a way for the young Inqusitor to go). But with each of his ministrations she’s feeling more and more; two of his fingers pumping inside her, his mouth around her clit.

“Bull-“ she warns between pants, and she can feel him grin against her as he speeds up. She comes with a small gasp, a smile on her lips, and Bull carries her through her orgasm, not stopping, licking at her juices.

When he finally rises, his chin is glistening, and her face burns up in reply. He leans close, kissing her, letting her taste herself, and she moans against his lips. One of his hands is tenderly petting her hair.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Fantastic.” She beams up at him, because it is the absolute truth.

“Good,” he smirks. “Then you’re ready for more.”

She yelps when he drags her closer, kisses her more urgently. She can feel him between their bodies, and she moves just slightly, creating the smallest of frictions. Bull moans, a sound that she’s sure she will never tire of, before pinching her ass for misbehaving.

He lets her go just for a few seconds, enough to discard of his clothes as well, and when he turns back to her, she _stares_. Honestly, it’s impossible not to. She has seen him run around half naked countless of times, she has seen him fight and train, but like this, entirely naked, she can appreciate the firm muscles, and the strong body lines all the more. His thighs alone look like they’ve been sculpted by the gods, and she can feel herself clenching at the sight. Then her gaze moves, falling on his dick – and all the staring would have probably harmed the ego of a less self-confident man. As it is, Bull just grins.

Then, with absolute certainty, she says: “It won’t fit in.”

He laughs, heartily. “We won’t know until we try, will we?” Though she can see him still growing at her comment, and her eyes go wide.

“You’ll break me in two,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest, though she’s still laying down, her legs clamping shut in arousal. Bull licks his lips at the sight, dick twitching.

He moves just to retrieve something from the floor, before he’s switching his entire attention back to her. He slowly takes her hands in his, moves them above her head. She can feel the leather of his belt around her wrists, pining her to the bed, but she doesn’t question it, doesn’t flinch against it, her eyes curious, but not fearful. She rubs her legs one against each other, searching for the tiniest bit of relief in the movement. His voice this time is softer.

“No matter when, if you tell me to stop, I will.” He looks at her then, making sure the words registered properly, before he straightens once again above her.

“Now, be a good girl and open your mouth.” Her head snaps at him, and for a second he’s sure she’ll call it off. Then, slowly, she licks her lips, gaze moving towards his dick, and she opens her mouth, tongue out, looking all warm and invitingly.

He moves slow, lets her adjust to the size, taste of him. She’s new at this, but what she lacks in experience, she makes up in enthusiasm. She licks at him at first, so soft and slow that it drives him half mad, then more and more passionately. His hand moves, a finger tenderly caressing her cheek, both sweet gesture and a signal, and she takes him in, as far as she can go without gagging. Barely half of his dick disappears in her mouth, her head bobbing around it, but he can feel her teeth against his sensitive skin, and her mouth is so warm, it feels so good, that he starts moving his hips, fucking into her mouth, without thinking too much about it. She tries her best to adjust to his pace, to accommodate as much of him as she can, and it’s the sequential moan that vibrates against his dick that eventually reminds him of what he is doing here.

With a tense jaw, he pulls out. There are tears forming at the corners of her eyes, and he kisses them away, moving afterwards to her mouth; a praise for her work. She smiles against him.

The sheets between her legs are stained with her arousal, and Bull smirks; he would like to tease her about it, show to her that she wants this as much as he does, but he remembers how adorably cute she’s been before, how pliant he’s been under his hands and words, and he lets her go just this one time. His hands are moving her legs apart once again, and her eyes are watching him, half still scared, half excited.

There’s no point in discussing it further: if it’ll be too much for her, he’ll stop, make her come again in the same way he did the first time, issue laid aside. If not, they’re both about to have some mighty great fun. He places himself at her entrance, and with a small nod in her direction, her teeth biting her lips, he pushes in.

She panics at first, tensing under him, cunt clenching around him, her legs clasping around his body. He moves his hand around her waist to guide her, his thumb again melding patterns into her skin, the motion calming. She breathes in, slowly relaxing, and following her body’s signals, Bulls moves again, until he is all fit snugly inside her.

Her eyes are clasped shut, her nails digging in her skin. He stays like that, waits for her to reach some kind of comfort in the position, in the newness of the situation; his lips mindlessly kiss against her temple, her wrists. Eventually, she begins moving: slow at first, then faster, needier, hips rocking against him, chasing some relief. He starts matching her every move, reaching deeper and deeper parts inside her each time he almost pulls out, only to slam inside her with all his force. She moans, cries out broken words, parts of his name, swears.

“God_s, harder,” _she moans, and it’s the only plea he plans to listen to. He grins, grunting in pleasure, cunt so sweet, fitting him so well, cries so loud, the smell of sex so strong, the sound of skin slapping against skin so delicious. He loves it all.

He moves a hand upwards, fingers playing with her nipples, grabbing at her boob painfully. It gets a reaction out of her, he can feel her clenching around him – so he leans closer and bites at her neck, hard. She comes with a cry, and there’s a smirk on his lips as he keeps fucking her through her high, coming, too, a minute later, inside her.

She’s all spent, eyes barely open – but still, when he moves out of her and away, she moans, a soft cry in protest at the lack of warmth. He’s staring at her cunt, his cum leaking out of her, before the sound of her arms straining against his belt snap him out of it. He’s quick to move, untie his knot, rub at her wrist and fingers, kiss the bruising spots. She sighs against his touches, rolling towards him, seeking more of him, in her tired state. He chuckles, but still moves away.

Instead, he grabs her water basin and a piece of cloth, and returns to the bed. The water’s cold, and she flinches when he starts cleaning the mess between her legs, but allows him access after the initial reaction, grateful that she doesn’t have to do this on her own, knowing that it would have been postponed until she wakes up.

There’s no awkwardness between the two, as he goes on with his care, as she tiredly checks the marks he left behind on her body. But despite how spent she feels, there’s also no stress left between her shoulder blades, no worries she can immediately recall. Maker, she’s been fucked good. And beyond that, for once since everything started, she hasn’t been in control. A most thrilling and exciting revelation.

Bull leaves without saying anything more, though she can hear him ushering away Leliana through the door, and she is most grateful. Only then does she allow herself to fall asleep.

* * *

The next day, she walks around… probably funny. She feels like her insides have been shifted around and put together weirdly, but she’s happy that the process has been… way less painful, and way more enjoyable than the stories she’s heard made it out to be. All praise probably delivered for Bull. She feels weirdly fascinated by this side he pulled out of her, and she can barely stop her mind from running after the memory of their time together for enough to still be productive.

But despite what happened, for the next week she cannot find a moment alone with him. After the first few days, she starts wondering if they’ll even discuss about it at all. But she’s been calling up meetings with Cassandra, went training with Cullen, and entertained nobles by Josephine’s side. People came rushing to her with requests, and the Inquisitor’s chair was waiting for her judgements each morning. The Chargers have been sent on a short mission, the courtyard suddenly emptier without them.

By the time the night falls, she is so tired that she can only quickly wash up and fall asleep. She knows they’re back because she can hear Krem hoarsely singing alongside the rest of the Chargers, and there it is- Bull’s typical, pleased laughter, after a job well done. She passes by the tavern smiling, stack of papers in her arms, and she decides she should celebrate alongside them, Inquisitor style, by checking all of these reports.

There’s a cup of mulled wine with cinnamon on her desk, most likely Cole’s doing, and she smiles against the rim as she tries it out. Around midnight, Josephine comes around, reminding her that they’re all not that serious, worried about the lights still on in the Inquisitor’s chambers. No matter what she feels like in the worst moments, she doesn’t mind this life that much, when it is like this: songs fading out into the night, friends looking out after each other, in so many different ways.

She makes her resolve to actually talk to him the next day. She idles half of the day away before she musters the courage. He’s in his usual spot in the tavern, splayed on his chair, drinking his ale, and she’s light-headed with nerves as she makes her request to see him alone. She hates that she has to spell it out for him; he knows better, but he likes to fuck with her, make her work for every word leaving his mouth.

“What’s on your mind, boss?”

“You are!” she sounds like a child again, petulant that she has to voice her requests. She can feel her insides burning just from having him in such a close proximity, his voice rumbling low. Inside this room, he is commanding her every word and action, and he moves around like he owns the place. She wants to drop to her knees in front of him, just from the power of his attitude alone.

“When it’s someone you care about, you give them what they need.”

She can go with this: first his admittance, that she is at least worth something to him, and then the fact that he knows what she needs better than she does. But how is she supposed to know such a thing, when she never had the respite to question herself on such matters?

So, she has Bull for this. He explains everything in that kind voice of his that he used in bed with her before, talking of everything expertly, carefully – powerfully. She already trusts him with her life each and every time they go out into the battle, and she’s about to relinquish him power over her body and her pleasure, too. Just the thought of it leaves her so much lighter, and his reasoning is actually touching: a mutual arrangement that benefits them both, but somehow born out of him knowing that she desperately needs someone to overpower her, to make decisions in her stead, at least in _something._

He’s so much bigger than her, and he’s an absolute madman in a battle. He could snap her neck in two without any effort, and she fears the potential of this power only, enough to send a surge of excitement through her body. The fact that she trusts him exactly because of that is the foundation of all of this.

“Take me,” she breathes, hands already reaching for him.

He takes her then, against the wall, arms held in one of his, the other rough at her waist, pumping into her, their breeches at their knees only in their haste, no preparation. It burns at first, but a deliciously sweet burn, that turns into pleasure with each of his waist’s movements, and he grunts into her ear, she bites into his shoulder. There’s the slight movement, fingers clasping around her throat, barely any pressure against her skin; but enough to have her clench against him, have her coming fast and hard, panting in the space between them, foreheads touching, as he follows, spilling his seed inside her.

Then it becomes a common occurrence; finding him in her room after a particularly tiring day, him slapping her ass as they pass each other on Skyhold’s hallway, running away from boring meetings to make out with him in cramped closets. Sometimes it’s just him waiting with a warm cup of tea, though, massaging her sore muscles after a particularly tiring day. Sometimes it’s him asking her to train together, until they’re both spent on the ground, exchanging random stories. Sometimes it’s her helping out Krem with sharpening his sword, or their healer with renewing his supplies. Sometimes it’s just the two of them and the width of one room, nothing beyond it.

* * *

Cole is scary sometimes; he knows so much. It’s not even that he knows, but that he shares it, says it out loud, unfiltered. She likes this about him a lot, that he offers her a glimpse at the world as it truly is, beyond bitten tongues, shameful secrets, stifled pain. That he does it out of want to help, that he doesn’t want to have dumb people collapse under the unspoken. Most of the times, the timing sucks, and it ends up in embarrassment – but the effect is enlightening either way.

Still, she can’t stop shaking while he speaks with her, for the first time, of the things she carries locked deep in her heart.

“War and weariness, blood and battle. Life, learning to lead, clash, kill. And past that, the weight of all, on you. All the hopes you carry, fears you fight. You are theirs. It must be very hard. I hope I help.”

She knows him kind, she knows him caring. She knows he’s only reflecting back the desperation beating against her ribcage. She knows it’s just her truth, pouring out of his mouth. She bites back the tears as she touches his shoulders, thanking him. He’s one of her friends here, even more so for the fact that she doesn’t have to tell him anything, for he already knows. She just didn’t expect him to tell her that he knows, not so… outright.

Bull finds her later, face hidden in her pillow, chest still heaving with the remains of a panic attack. His fingers curl calmly in her hair, massaging at her scalp, body winding around her to hold her. She shakes, sobbing, terrified of failing, terrified of winning. 

Then it happens to him as well: “Guilt at not feeling guiltier.”

No matter how many times she reminds him: that he is a great man, that he’s done good and admirable things, that there’s nothing to feel guilty about, that he saved people he cares about… The Iron Bull still finds a part of him missing, his entire life as he had known it in what he had thrown aside with that decision.

They’re not that different after all. She tries to tell him, that there’s nothing coming out of fixating on the past. That the future is either bleak or non-existent, and the only place in time that matters is now. It helps, somewhat, but not enough, and there are evenings when no one can tell where he’s gone. She waits for him through the night, and when he eventually stumbles back, it’s her arms that welcome him. Not consolation enough, but she can only hope that someday, it might be.

* * *

Josephine warned her; that she is to welcome a lot of stares and comments through all her night at the palace if she takes the Iron Bull as her companion. But she refused to take anyone else with her, and he’s the most skilled out of all of them at picking up secret body language. If there’s a plot to uncover, then his training is the most helpful. That was the official argument anyway. Part of her just wanted to experience this with him. It was a selfish request, Orlais isn’t particularly welcoming with qunari, in general – and certainly not with the one accompanying the Inquisitor.

She was used, once upon a time, to this kind of social gatherings. But back then she never had such attention pointed at her; and she can’t help but bother Bull every five minutes, just to make sure she doesn’t look foolish dressed like this, that she didn’t leave food at the corner of her mouth. She’s supposed to represent the entire organization, and she thinks at the way the dress barely fit her, after Josephine left her breathless with a corset, or how her manners have been forgotten in the midst of all the battling, and how hard it is to try and at least care about the nobles swarming them.

As the night goes on, things settle for a bit. But each time a remark about the Iron Bull is made, she wants to tear their smiling faces apart, to stuff their rotten mouths with daggers. All these nobles that think they are better, because they’re keeping their little dirty secrets beyond closed doors and fancy masks, because the blood in their veins is somehow of a higher quality. She learnt that everyone bleeds the same, if hurt properly, so it’s not that of an impressive boast.

Then – someone calls her by her name. Not her title, not her lineage, but her actual name. She stumbles, reaching out for the table near her to remain standing.

“Brother,” she whispers, as her oldest sibling mock curtsies in front of her.

“Starting religious rumours, recreating an old organization and bedding a qunari. You surely got the attention of everyone across Thedas, sis.”

She cannot move. Just as during the old times, when having her family reproaching her something, the first instinct is to close up, to stop doing anything that might get more of their attention. But no matter how much she remains still, her brother’s comments are still pouring in.

“Brother,” her voice cuts off his monologue, and he actually looks surprised. “I do what I do so you can still enjoy this disgusting lifestyle of yours in peace, so that everyone else in this goddamn world can go on living.” Her hands are shaking hard by now. “And whatever I decide to do is no concern to you anymore.”

“You’re still a Trevelyan.”

“Sadly, brother. But I am, above anything else, the Inquisitor.”

She raises her head; dares look him in the eye. She almost wants to collapse in relief when he scoffs and leaves her. If he expected his pliable youngest sister that he used to know, then he is the one in the wrong. One cannot survive the things she did without having them change her. Even with the twisted rumours reaching him, he should have known better. Maybe he expected her to be a puppet head figure, or have her old alliances still standing. She maybe has forgiven the fact that they didn’t send even a servant after her when they discovered she was still alive, but she hasn’t forgotten. She refuses to matter to them now, when her influence spans widely enough that they feel threatened to have the same name as her.

Almost by instinct, she runs away to find him. To find Iron Bull, life easier to bear at his side. He’s drunk on annoyance, nobles no less shitty to him. She surprises even herself when she invites him to dance, desperate to divert both of their attention towards more pleasant topics. He laughs at her suggestion; he knows the nobles; he knows they would take it exactly for what it is. Just as the person that is accompanying her, they can still explain things, stop the rumours before they’re turning into the truth. If they’re seen dancing though… there will be more than alliance between the two of them, they both know it.

Still, she waits in front of him. She refuses to accept a _no_ from him this time, and his agreement afterwards comes way more easily, partly want to please her, partly need to annoy these nobles.

He has also noticed the way they’ve been eyeing her, both men and women. The Inquisitor is still a young woman, beautiful enough; made even more desirable by her appearance tonight, by her status, by her name. He fucking hates nobles. He’d like to grab her waist, parade around with her by his side, show them all exactly how unavailable she is, shove it in their faces that his is the only touch that matters, his words are the only ones that bend her.

But they’re not here to enjoy themselves, not yet anyway. The room stinks of deceive and assassinations plots, besides the usual sexual appetite. So he pushes away his frustration, and they discuss who’s doing who out of these nobles, the latest fashion of Orlais, and the food. Then, he has to let her go and to will his mind to focus on what they need to do.

After everything, she still wants the good old same: a moment of respite. After the stifling ballroom, all the running around, all the lies she had to make sense through… the night air on the balcony does wonders against her skin, for her tangled thoughts. She leaves the rest of the mess for Cullen and Josephine to deal with. Then, unsurprisingly… the Iron Bull is by her side. She leans her forehead against his shoulder, the day having been so long.

Then, he bumps against her: “Come on, let’s dance.”

She smiles, happy as a little child, as she makes herself comfortable by his side, his hand on her back, _finally. _They stumble around for a bit, size difference making their steps not match, but they soon find their rhythm – and they find they don’t care about who is watching. Not at all.

* * *

“So, I heard an interesting rumour…” she starts, sipping from her ale, fixing Bull with her eyes, trying not to let all of her emotions show on her face. He raises a brow at her, an invitation to continue.

“The servant girls?” He chokes on his drink, his feet loudly hitting the floor from where he was keeping them up on table. He won’t ask how she knows; rumours travel the easiest in Skyhold, and there’s no point in denying something that is true, in trying to convince her of the opposite. Each person has their own needs, and he finds pleasure in allowing others’ to find theirs. It’s been simple enough with those girls, less complicated, less heavy. Something more surface level and unsatisfying.

“Not since – not since us.” He says. This is the truth. He has focused on the Inquisitor only; just as her sole focus is on them all. She carries it all, and it is his pleasure to make sure she doesn’t break under the load. She has started trusting him more and more, with past stories, future hopes, with her heart at its most vulnerable. He has felt humbled by her tender gestures, by how willingly she fell into his arms and stayed there, glued herself at his side. He couldn’t give her anything less than that. Plus, the sex has been great, her a most enthusiastic pupil.

Her lashes lower, and she moves around the table to reach his side. A quick glance around the tavern tell her that it is late enough into the night that those that aren’t passed out have already retreated into their rooms, so she’s not shy at all when she positions herself over his thigh, facing him. He can feel her heat through his pants.

“You know,” she says, moving to kiss along his jaw. “You’re the only man that ever touched me.”

His body immediately responds to the confession, breeches suddenly uncomfortable. A hand moves to rest on one of her thighs, fingers tightening around her.

“Tell me… what’s this? What are we doing?”

It’s one of the few times that he actually lets her decide in this relationship. He allows her an out of it, always. There’s always one word, _katoh,_ sitting between the two of them – and he seems more fearful of it than her. He never pushes her to the extremes, she’s always the one that needs to ask for more, and it’s true in both sex, and apparently feelings too. He tells her of an old tradition, and only then does she start moving, grinding against his leg, and he contracts his muscles, providing her extra firmness.

Her breathes are hot against his neck, her hands coming up to hold onto his shoulders for support. His hands are now on her ass, kneading the flesh there, grunts escaping him as she starts moving faster, pressing harder against him. She’s whispering her fantasies in his ear, telling him of all the times she imagined him having her, of all the ways – and she comes like that, on top of him, his hands barely having touched her.

“That was so hot,” he says, helping her stand up. There’s a wet stain left behind on his clothes, and he grabs her hand, slowly pulls her someplace else, where he can actually do all the things she mentioned. “You’re so bloody fuckable,” he grunts, ripping her shirt off her, and she laughs, her hands searching for his belt. 

* * *

So, she hunts and kills a dragon. In the name of love. The Iron Bull roars as it crashes to the ground, the impact making it shake underneath her feet. The ends of her hair are burned, and she’s covered in blood from head to toe, but there’s pride vibrating in her at the end of it all, so she kind of gets where Bull is coming from, with all the enthusiasm for dragons. She hides a tooth inside her jacket, plans to treat everyone in her party to a good meal once they’re all back and cleaned up.

That bath was one of the best she’s taken in her entire life, and the meal too. Her body is hurting everywhere from the strain of the battle, but everyone is also happy. No one can match Bull though, as he passes a strange drink to anyone foolish enough to accept it. She takes a seat at his side, willingly exposing herself to the thing that left the Chargers dozing off on the floor, probably. She drinks, and she listens to him talk about dragons – and gods, this could be considered foreplay by itself. She chokes on the alcohol each and every time, and she falls more and more drunk with each gulp.

That night, she hears that nickname for the first time. _Kadan_. When after their third drink, they toast to each other; and what beautifully it sounded to her then, The Iron Bull and his Inquisitor.

He compliments her on her fantastic tits, and though they laugh along the way, struggling to make it to her room, she remembers loving it then the most. She went on top, her tits bouncing in the air with each movement; the way he shuddered under her when she kissed his horns, the way he came with a loud shout. Everything so much like them. 

* * *

When they’re drinking with everyone else, Varric decides to tease them, ask for details on their relationship. She’s sure he put most of the puzzle pieces together, and he just enjoys seeing her squirm in her seat, all while Bull remains unfazed by her side.

“That room is for me and her. No one else invited.”

Her heart leaps in her chest at how quickly he defended their... whatever they are. She looks up at him, asking for more, though she knows that if it is to come, it won’t be here. Varric, though, is relentless.

“Aw. Safe harbour from the world outside.”

This eventually gets a reaction out of him, though it’s not the one she was hoping for. He looks almost panicked, grossed out at the suggestion. Even as if this is exactly what he offered her during their times together. Is it that weird, that others can make out what is going on between the two of them? Is it that weird, that it can more poetically be put into Varric’s words?

But the second Varric turns away from them, Bull winks at her, and they share one conspiratory smile, the truth only for them to know. The necklace is burning her from where she keeps it in her pocket. 

* * *

"There we go. No Inquisition. No war. Nothing outside this room. Just you and me.”

She wants to kiss him again, just for the way in which he says these things; like they’re truly the only two people that matter in this world. He is splayed naked in her bed, and gods, she wants to wake up to this sight of him every single morning. She’s aware that she’s been only taking and taking, and she’s surprised to find out how greedy she can be when it comes to him. She wants him in all possible ways, under all known laws – and it still wouldn’t feel enough. So she settles for the one that matters most to him. She’s only in a thin shirt, rummaging through last night’s clothes, looking for her present, when her door is slammed to the wall, Cullen in the frame.

The Iron Bull remain unbothered on their bed. Then, Josephine follows. It seems like the Maker doesn’t want to make anything too easy for her.

“Can I help either of you with anything?” the Inquisitor asks, clearly annoyed. Before the two have time to answer though, Cassandra strolls in. Much like the other advisors, the sight of a naked Iron Bull makes her stop, petrified. It is, still, her the one that snaps out of it the fastest.

The words burn her, meant to shame her or give her a way out of the situation, neither things that she wants or make justice to what is actually going in. Momentary diversion cannot even begin to describe their relationship, and she can’t help her indignation at such choice of words. They haven’t even tried to keep what they’ve been doing a secret, and enough people know about it, yet her most trusted people doubt the validity of her intentions.

Her gaze burns at their back until the door finally closes, and she sighs, dropping on the bed near Bull. She opens her palm, revealing what she’s been holding onto all this time: exactly the proof of how serious she is in caring about him, in… well, loving him.

Then:_ Kadan_, again. Sober, softer, realer. His heart. For the first time, they make love and name it as such, a certain softness even in the harshest of his touches, a tenderness behind each of his kisses. Gods, she loves him.

* * *

Cole is…. way too familiar with their sex life. And no matter how many times they try to make it stop, it’s almost like when they’re together, his mouth automatically runs off, and about their feelings and their deeds. It’s not like much has changed, besides having him more often around her, needing no excuses to have him near. He’s tenderer, more obvious in his attention and devotion, but the same can be said about her. With their relationship out in the open, she almost never shuts up about him, to those that know him.

But having drinks with all of them, that’s when they can’t escape the scrutiny.

“She almost says the word, sometimes. Katoh. She tastes it on her mouth, sweet relief, a breath away, tongue tying it tenderly, like you tie her. But she doesn’t, for you. And for her. Because it makes it mean more. A fuller feeling, a brighter burst.”

All the blood rushes to her head, embarrassed beyond belief. Under the table, she squeezes at Bull’s hand, and she really wishes a hole would open up and take her. He tries to make Cole stop, but the other guys are insisting on hearing more, even as Sera is shouting over all of them, that she can’t quite see how the Inquisitor is still able to walk after they’re doing it. Looks like word of how big Iron Bull is did rounds.

“You act like you’re in charge, the Iron Bull. But it’s really her. She decides when, and you measure it carefully, enough to enjoy, to energize, but never to anger. She’s tied, teased, tantalized, but it’s tempered to what she wants. She submits, but you serve.”

“If you take away all the mystery, it’s not quite as hot,” he replies.

Barely whispering, cheeks aflame, the Inquisitor says: “Bull… yes, it is.”

He grabs her, carries her out of the tavern with the hollering cheers of their friends as a background, and only poor Cole is left confused amongst the chaos, while she giggles at his chest, aware that her cheekiness won’t be forgiven so easily. 

* * *

The closer they get to the end of the fight, the more uncertain she grows. There’s no way of knowing if she will make it out of it alive, and she thinks she is protecting him, reminding him of this fact. She is the key piece in the fight against Corypheus, and there is no guarantee that winning won’t cost her life. It’s a price that she has been ready to pay, ever since the beginning, but now she’s figuring out that she has more to regret leaving behind. Him most of all.

It’s one of their rare days where they can sleep in, where the world doesn’t demand urgency out of them. In the face of her words, of the reality behind them (and how sweet _together_ sounds, pouring off his lips), they make love once again. His tying is soft against her skin, silk rope, and this time he denies her nothing, just gives and gives until they’re both breathless and spent.

It turns out that she actually makes it out of it alive. It doesn’t sink in until Bull says it, anchors her to the reality of it all. She cries throughout that night, her purpose finally coming to an end, and he doesn’t know how to console her in the face of the newfound freedom. He just wants her to know that he’ll be there, for her. A choice he makes every single day.

* * *

Years down the path, the Inquisition still exists, though its current aims are to still be discussed. By her side, the Iron Bill still remains. The Chargers are still dealing with requests, but their headquarters are in Skyhold, yet. Some things remained the same, while some things changed. She is older now, she yearns for more stability, and the suggestion for marriage, though surprising, is not denied. She’d like to fight less, to focus on some other things in her life.

She remains his _kadan_. A title of honour for the woman he loves, something he mentions each time that he can, proud even in the face of Varric’s teasing. He’s also grown.

Solas betrays them. Or rather, he betrays this entire world, a lonely god inside of it. If the years he spent in the Inquisition, by the side of the most honourable and amazing people she knows didn’t convince him that maybe they are still worth saving, she doesn’t think she can even dare try doing it on her own. But all that she knows and all that she loves is in here, and so she will try her best.

Her glowing, green hand, the symbol of her fight, is trying to kill her though. She screams every other breath, eyes hectic in looking for some mages and healers that can help her. They don’t have the time to knock her out, so she bites into a ball of cloth and passes out from the pain instead.

When she wakes, her left arm is gone. The ghost of her pain still lingers in her brain, and when she reaches for the glass of water on the table near her, it’s with the arm that is missing that she does. The healer finds her on the floor, cradling the stump at her chest, lips bitten to blood, but tears unshed. She has given this mark everything she could, and now she can fully admit it. Much like her body, part of her heart got amputated too, in this last fight – knowing that it’s not really the last, that she still has to keep going.

She’s angry, more than anything else. She refuses to speak with any of the mages tending to her, and they consider it natural, given the circumstances. She doesn’t want to return back to her old life, only to figure out what unfitting this new version of her is. Then:

“Kadan.”

She hasn’t heard him enter the room, and now it’s too late to hide what’s left of her arm. She can feel him measure her up, and only when she finally dares to look up at him to meet his gaze, do the tears fall. She’s always so weak and pathetic only in front of him. The bed creaks under the added weight, and he’s unsure in his touches, not knowing where it hurts, where it doesn’t. He hasn’t even washed up or changed from the road, after dealing with the spies in their ranks, immediately finding her, especially after being told about her wound. He cups her cheeks, kisses all over her face, slowly and lovingly, grounding her.

“Darling…” her voice cracks in the middle, and she sniffs loudly, ungracefully.

For a while, they disappear. Their friends know only that they are together, but they understand the need for a break, for readjustment. Still, even upon return, she hates that she has to roll around her shirts every morning, to match the length of her arm, that she’s only half as capable in combat now. But there is nothing that she can do now, other than just try to move forward.

She remains near the Divine, in the Inquisition’s ranks, trying to restore some semblance of an order in Thedas. There’s rumours of the Chargers taking on odd jobs all across the continent, though no one knows the real truth.

* * *

When Inquisition’s work is done, it will put its sword away.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I haven't written this much in one sitting in the past *checks calendar* 4 years. This fic just grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and forced me to write it all out, or it'll never be done. So voila. I just love the Iron Bull that much, and writing character studies for the Dragon Age origins that are painfully humane is one of my kinks.  
I also created a pinterest moodboard for this Trevelyan of mine: https://ro.pinterest.com/persephonn/dragon-age-female-trevelyan/
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoy what I'm doing, I also have a [tumblr](https://pathofcomets.tumblr.com/) where you can reach me!


End file.
